


Miracle

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Boys Kissing, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: It's Christmas, wine is consumed, gifts are exchanged, Erke is thrilled.
Relationships: Erke Bodilsson/Stowe
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	Miracle

Erke has been in love with Stowe since the moment he laid eyes on him, taken in by dark soulful eyes and soft full lips that smiled so kindly at yet another foreign invader to his home and welcomed him like family.

It is Stowe’s Christmas, a celebration of the birth of his god, and he is in good spirits. Beautiful in his joy, flushed with happiness and drink, deep enough in his cups to be softer around the edges.

Erke approaches carrying wine with cautious hope. He knows what he wants, and he feels almost brave enough to ask for it. According to Stowe, this is a time for miracles.

This would be quite the miracle, but he sends a prayer to Stowe’s god, just in case. It can’t hurt to have _all_ possible gods on his side.

“Erke!” Stowe enthuses, accepting the cup of wine with a broad grin and wrapping both hands around it, soaking up the warmth and lifting it to his nose to breathe in the scent of spices, a happy sound thrumming in the back of his throat.

Erke swallows, his mouth too dry to respond.

“I was wondering where you were,” Stowe continues—if he has noticed Erke’s silence, then he is not acknowledging it.

Erke clears his throat. “Well, someone had to take care of things around here while you were at church,” Erke says. Tryggr has converted, and Erke wonders if perhaps Stowe could feel the same way about him more easily if he too pledged himself to Stowe’s god.

He wonders if he’d do it for that alone, but he does not wonder too deeply. The answer makes him feel like he’s already done it.

Instead of saying so, he sips his wine and lets it warm him and calm his trembling hands.

“Lucky I have a gift for you, to make up for the hardship of having to shoulder an extra duty or two today,” Stowe teases, but then he really does produce a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from somewhere on his person.

Erke stares at Stowe’s outstretched hand in surprise, not daring to reach out and accept.

“It’s nothing much, just made me think of you,” Stowe says, colour creeping up his neck.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” Erke says, still in shock.

“It’s traditional,” Stowe says. “And I know _you_ don’t celebrate, but I do, and… I wanted… will you just take it, please?”

This spurs Erke into action, and he accepts the gift, trying not to let his fingers brush against Stowe’s so he doesn’t give himself away. The cloth falls away to reveal a cloak pin, beautiful in its simplicity, made by Dane hands. Erke knows the style, would know it anywhere.

“The one you have keeps falling off,” Stowe says. “And the cold will only get more bitter from here on out, I’m afraid.”

Erke wants to laugh—the cold is never _bitter_ here in this green and temperate paradise—but the thought touches him deeply. Stowe cares if he is cold.

“It’s beautiful,” Erke says, risking a glance at Stowe’s face and catching his gaze, holding it for a fleeting moment before he looks away again, focusing on the pin, which is safe. “Thank you. I… I should have gotten you something.”

“No, no need, as I said, I know you don’t celebrate,” Stowe says.

“But I could have known.” _I could have, for you._ “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Stowe says, always so kind, so much better than anything Erke deserves—his hands unstained, his soul pure, his heart golden.

“I feel guilty,” Erke says, but he tucks the pin away all the same, and he will have it for the rest of his days.

“Well, if you’re dying to give me a gift…” Stowe says, another sip of wine staining his lips ever redder, soft and full in the flickering firelight, even in shadow as they are, tucked away from the other revellers.

“Yes,” Erke says, because he would do anything for Stowe, anything at all.

Stowe drains his cup and takes Erke’s and finishes it, too, holding his gaze as he drinks deeply, then setting them both aside.

Erke’s stomach swoops as Stowe reaches out to him.

Perhaps, if he had ever dared imagine this, he would have imagined Stowe gentle. Instead, strong fingers close around the fabric of his tunic, hauling him forward until his nose brushes against Stowe’s, wine and spices and the soap Erke gave him out of horror at how little he bathed filling his senses.

“May I?” Stowe asks, so close his lips nearly brush Erke’s regardless of permission.

Erke closes the gap—he _is_ meant to be giving a gift—and cannot help the needy sound that rises in his throat, warmth rushing to his belly as Stowe opens up under him, mouth sweet and hot and pliant, accepting this as though it’s all he’s ever wanted.

His tunic creaks under the grip of Stowe’s fingers, pulling him closer, a soft snarl warning Erke that his friend isn’t done with him yet, that he wants more, and Erke could drown in that knowledge and call it a good death.

The pillar behind him knocks the breath out of his lungs as Stowe pushes him against it, but he needs this more than air, more than blood, more than any other life-giving thing because he, too, has lived his whole life waiting for this and it’s so much more than he could have imagined.

Stowe nips at his lower lip and brushes their tongues together, open-mouthed and eager, tasting of wine and spices and the earthy grit of Lunden which is woven into the fabric of his being, oily, dark, rich, and secret.

Erke’s hands come to rest on Stowe’s waist as he pushes for more still, taking and taking shamelessly, solid body pressed up against Erke, pinning him in place, and he has never before noticed that Stowe is just a little bigger than he is, broader and stronger, but the knowledge sets his senses aflame like dry straw.

Stowe’s thumb strokes his beard as his fingers curl around Erke’s neck, the kiss slowing, softer now, only lips, no teeth, no tongue, and Erke thinks he likes this part best, the calm after the storm, when everything is clear and the world looks bright and new again, the horizon back where it belongs, even if he is in a new place.

They are both in a new place when Stowe finally pulls back for breath, still so close that their breath mingles between them, but just far enough that Erke can see how dark his eyes are, glittering like fresh snow under the midday sun.

“Thank you,” Stowe murmurs, breathless.

“Happy Christmas,” Erke says, soft, his hands still curled around Stowe’s waist, unwilling to let this miracle end so soon.

Stowe breaks into a broad smile. “God jul,” he says, and his tongue does not quite fit the shape of the words, but that he has learned them at all means something to Erke.

Besides, his tongue fits other things just fine.

“Was your gift everything you hoped for?” Erke asks, his heart beating in his throat.

Stowe lowers his dark lashes, glancing at Erke under them, and Erke’s knees weaken at the sight.

“More than,” Stowe says. “But I think I took more than I was offered.”

Erke thinks to say _I would give you everything I am and still look for more to offer_ , but he does not wish to lose this playful mood. There will be time, one day, to confess the depth of his feelings.

“Perhaps we’ll have to keep exchanging gifts until we get the balance just right?” he suggests instead, thumb stroking Stowe’s side.

“Could take some doing,” Stowe murmurs, pink tongue darting out to wet reddened lips, making them glisten temptingly.

“There is a long, cold winter ahead of us,” Erke says, leaning in again, savouring the brush of his nose against Stowe’s, the up-close scent of him, the warmth of his body.

This must be a Christian miracle, he thinks. His gods would never be so kind.

“I think we will have time.”


End file.
